Page 84 of Nineteen Letters
The following afternoon, your father let you have another crack at it. He was a braver man than me, because I was already thinking of excuses to get out of coming. But in the end, I decided I’d risk my life if it meant supporting you. Love can make you do crazy things sometimes.
“I’ve just got to duck home and grab something,” I said as you placed your L-plates on the car.
When you saw my bike helmet on my head, your eyes widened before narrowing into slits. “Very funny, arsehole,” you snapped, playfully punching me in the arm.
Your dad laughed as I climbed into the back seat. “Smart man,” he whispered before you reached the driver’s side.
This time it was impossible for you to take out the letterbox, because it was gone. My fingers dug painfully into the leather lining in the back seat as the car jolted down the street, but I relaxed a little when I noticed youcould actually drive okay in a straight line. It didn’t last long, though.
“Put your right indicator on,” your father said as we neared the end of the street. “Brake slightly,” which was more of a sudden jerk, “then turn the wheel to the right as you round the corner.”
You didn’t turn it enough, and we mounted the kerb and almost ran down a pedestrian, and the small dog she was walking.
It’s safe to say that after one trip around the block with you, your father and I were a collective nervous wreck. “I’m going to need to invest in one of those helmets,” your father whispered to me while you removed the L-plates from the car.
When we entered the house, you looked completely deflated and headed straight for your bedroom.
“You two are as white as ghosts,” your mother said when we walked into the kitchen.
“She’s definitely your daughter,” your father replied with a sigh, as he headed straight for the fridge to grab a beer. I was nearly seventeen, and underage, but boy could I have done with one of them as well.
For the interim, your dad banned you from driving on the road. Instead, for the next four weeks he took you tothe local oval, or at night to an empty car park. It wasn’t until he was certain you were fit to drive on the road again that the proper lessons recommenced.
The more you drove, the more confident you became, and before long we were all comfortable getting in the car when you were behind the wheel.
A year later, on the eleventh of August 2006, it was time for you to take your driving exam. Your father was unaware you’d booked in for it; you told me you feared letting him down if you didn’t pass. He had dedicated so much time to making sure your driving was up to scratch.
I came with you, and I saw how badly your hands shook when the instructor called your name. “Good luck, Jem,” I said, hugging you briefly. “You’ve got this in the bag.”
I paced back and forth in the motor registry as I awaited your return. Thirty minutes later you walked through the door with a huge smile on your face.
“I passed!” you said, leaping into my arms.
“I’m so proud of you.” Your happiness was infectious. I lifted you off the ground, swinging you around in a circle.
That night, your parents took us out to dinner to celebrate. They let you drive. You couldn’t have wiped thesmile off your father’s face if you tried. He was so proud of his little girl.
The following Saturday morning, you woke to find a small red second-hand car sitting in your driveway. It was a 1999 Ford Laser, wrapped in a huge white bow.
“Be safe,” your father said, handing you the keys. “Always remember everything I taught you.”
“I promise, Daddy,” you replied, wiping a tear from your eye.
That weekend, we drove anywhere and everywhere. You even let me drive sometimes. My father couldn’t afford to buy me a car, but I was okay with that.
I didn’t need one now anyway—wherever you went, I was right beside you. Just the way it had always been.
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Yours always,
Braxton
Chapter 26
Braxton
Now that Jemma has started running again, I get to see her almost every day. The best part is having her at our home, even if it’s only for a short time. In those moments I can pretend we are everything we once were. And it gives me hope that one day we will be that again.
